


can’t win without a few punches

by OldMagpie (MagpieMorality)



Series: skip to the good part [4]
Category: A Dangerous Fortune (2016), Wolf (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assorted Side Characters Of Little Note, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Rough Sex, Snark, The Great Kenzarelli Multiverse, not historically accurate, with either story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieMorality/pseuds/OldMagpie
Summary: Mickey is bored and ready to move on from his latest squeeze when he ends up at an underground boxing match, eyes fixed on none other than the newest contender in town, a fighter named Majid.He knows what he wants.
Relationships: Mickey Miranda/Majid Zamari
Series: skip to the good part [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050629
Comments: 29
Kudos: 72





	can’t win without a few punches

**Author's Note:**

> Almost entirely unedited, forgive any sloppiness! 
> 
> At least this one has some actual smut in it? :)))

Mickey is no blushing damsel. He knows exactly what's going on when his flavour of the month drags him out of the very nice country house they've been lounging in for days on end and into the city. He knows the slight shiftiness of the man's expression when he dodges Mickey's third attempt to find out where they're heading.

He knows the backstreets of cities intimately. 

"It's just a little get together," Lord such and such says. Basingbrooke? Bollingstoke? Eddie, Mickey mostly calls him. Or _My Lord_ , when he's getting bored and needs the rich man to hurry up and finish so Mickey can get to sleep or move onto more enjoyable pursuits than yet another night of entirely uninspired sex (not that he hadn't tried to introduce the man to more exciting pleasures but either he was losing his touch or Eddie was an exceptionally boring fuck, and Mickey was _not_ losing his touch) on expensive silk sheets. "Nothing fancy. But it would be rather lovely to have you there, darling."

Mickey just sighs and drapes against the side of the carriage, affecting a sulk but instead watching the route carefully, just in case. It always pays to know where one is in an emergency.

The seedy bar they stop outside is quiet, until they get inside and down the stairs. Then the wall of noise and heat that hits them is so forceful it feels like they've tried to walk through an unopened door. Eddie takes his coat and hands it off to a surprisingly well-dressed attendant, and they wander inside. Illegal fighting this time, it seems. Nothing too exciting but Mickey does enjoy the show of it once in a while, so long as he can avoid the messiness. Blood is so awfully difficult to remove from one's clothes.

"Come, we have seats," Eddie tells him, guiding them both to the side of the ring, a little closer than Mickey would like, but it appears to be some sort of status symbol so he won't complain. Eddie murmurs to a gentleman that appears and hands over several bills, waving off Mickey's curiosity quickly. He slumps with a pout, frustrated that he won't even be allowed the fun of betting on the poor brutes that are to beat the shit out of each other for his viewing pleasure. "We will bet on the champion today, darling. A Frenchman, but a good investment nonetheless. First one of his countrymen not to disappoint me, in fact. He's the title fight, we'll only have one fight before to watch. Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, I-"

Eddie cuts him off, ordering swiftly for the two of them and Mickey feels his jaw twitch tightly. Oh, to be out of London, somewhere his accent doesn't always inevitably end with the rich elite he's courting deciding he isn't clever enough to think for himself. Although, that in itself has been a boon enough times over to amass him a small fortune… He purses his lips and tells himself to be patient and polite. Perhaps the fighting will be a good waste of time anyway.

The first is… not. Too much roaring and posturing, slapping of chests and peacocking around the ring. The smaller man goes down predictably early, despite the David and Goliath hype that had accompanied the billing. So disappointing, but hardly a surprise. Mickey could have told every one of the men and women in the place that such an outcome was inevitable. Life was life; heroes did not exist. Stories ended that way in books because they couldn't in reality.

The second fight on the other hand… shakes that belief somewhat. The Frenchman looks almost miserable to even be there, but his opponent is the first thing to grab Mickey's attention since he'd set his eyes on Eddie's wristwatch three weeks ago in Victoria Station. Only this isn't stirring the ache in his chest that longs for _more more more_ but a significantly lower ache that makes him bite his lip and snap to attention in his seat.

His name is only announced as The Wolf, though if the muttering Mickey is eavesdropping on between Eddie and another Lord sat beside him is to be believed - the fighter is called Majid and might hail from either the Maghreb or Holland or both or neither. A bit of an enigma, and a bloody good boxer, but not enough to scare anyone into thinking he'll beat their reigning champion. And yet, in a startling turn of events, their sure thing top dog is quite clearly outmatched in the very first round.

Mickey watches with gradually widening eyes, shifting further forwards in his seat every minute, as the Frenchman is steadily reduced to a trembling mess by the Wolf he faces. Mickey is sure, absolutely certain, that Majid could have finished the fight long ago but is drawing it out, perhaps looking to increase his own reputation and improve his standing with the crowd and organisers. Either way Mickey is _not_ going to be complaining. He dislikes the uncouth mess of violence but he can hardly deny the animal magnetism of a man that powerful, enough to make him think he'd be happy to be the one on his knees for once. If nothing else the man must be a devil in bed.

An intoxicating prospect.

On the heels of that thought Mickey glances over at Eddie. Three weeks was a decently significant amount of time to spend with the man - it would certainly achieve his aims well enough, which were really only to improve his standing with a few well-placed London elite that he could call on in future. The high life he'd been treated to hadn't hurt either, but it all adds up to the satisfied conclusion that Mickey feels he can happily move on. If Mr. Wolf is available and interested, that is.

He laughs to himself. As though anyone has ever _not_ been interested in him, honestly.

By the time the Frenchman has given up the ghost Mickey has made up his mind and he turns to Eddie in the furore that follows, wrapping his fingers around the Lord's wrist. "My Lord," he purrs, leaning as hard into his accent as he can. "I have enjoyed myself very much, but I am afraid I will not accompany you home tonight. I will gladly return in the future, if you are amenable?"

Eddie hesitates so Mickey bites his lip and lets his eyelashes fall down briefly, a coy look that somehow comes across as almost bashfully shy. Even Mickey doesn't know why it works, but it does, and Eddie is no stronger than any other to crumble under the power of it. The Lord draws him in with a kiss to the back of his hand and waves him off, instantly drawn back into conversation with his rich friends and leaving Mickey perfectly free to go after his next conquest.

It's shockingly easy to worm his way through the place and into the boxers' changing room. Which is really only a backroom appropriated for the purpose of changing and - in the case of the losing party, in this case the Frenchman - medical attention. Majid is prodding his jaw in the corner as a haggard and frustrated doctor checks the Frenchman, but his eyes flick over to the door when Mickey slips inside. They clock each other and take stock, which results in a distinctly unimpressed eyebrow being raised by Majid, and a slow, curling smile from Mickey. He's had bigger challenges, the admittedly cool reception isn't going to faze him much.

"Mickey Miranda, I was very entertained by your victory, Mr. Wolf," he says, slinking up to the boxer and holding a hand out. Majid licks over the split in his lip and eyes it before turning around to rummage in his bag, a delightfully overt brush off. Mickey's smile takes on a sharp edge. "You're not very well socialised, are you?"

"Should I be? Doesn't help much in the ring," Majid replies just as archly, nearly knocking Mickey over when he swings his packed back up over his shoulder. The man is barely dressed, certainly hasn't been seen to, and has yet to collect his winnings. His act of leaving is for show, but Mickey will happily let him posture if he must. Get it out of the way so all that pride can slough off for the night nice and early. "Can I help you, Mickey?"

"And so familiar!" Mickey scolds, pressing into the boxer's space. A soft groan from the downed fighter behind them distracts neither of them. Up close Majid is built very handsomely, a surprisingly pleasant face for a boxer, and of a height with Mickey himself, though he suspects the height of his boots helps even the balance between them there. "I would like to pay my compliments."

"Not interested."

"Even if I believed that to be true," which he doesn't, because Majid has not even slightly swayed away from him despite their proximity, "I would still insist I be given a chance to prove my admiration. There must be a celebration."

"How much?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much do you cost?"

Mickey laughs, startled and offended. From the glint in Majid's eye that had been the intention. He leans in towards Mickey's ear to add insult to… insult. "Whatever it is I doubt you're worth the expense. You look difficult."

They pause, and Mickey whips a hand up but Majid is too quick, well-trained reflexes catching his wrist before it can get very far. Impressive. Mickey can admit that, even through his swiftly ignited fury. "You are _very_ rude."

"And you're desperate. What of it?"

Their growing tension is put on brief hold when an attendant hurries in to hand over Majid's winnings. He moves away and actually does start to dress, pulling on a shirt and coat over his still gleaming torso. Such a shame, to cover that up. Mickey mutters as much, stepping to the side to wait, and Majid - he thinks, but it's too fast to say for certain - quirks his lips in a brief smirk.

"You're still here?"

"Desperate, am I not?" Mickey retorts, blinking with a falsely sweet smile. Majid rolls his eyes and snorts, but his following glance is full of consideration that wasn't there before. Mickey holds his breath, watching the boxer move towards the side door that will take him out into the street. His line is cast, the fish is nosing the bait, but has it caught?

Majid stops at the door, half pushed open. He looks back and jerks his head once before stepping out.

Mickey grins and spares the still groaning Frenchman an unsympathetic glance back as he hurries to follow.

* * *

Majid isn't sure what he expects when he allows the insistent dandy to follow him home. He isn't sure the man will even get all the way back with him, half assuming he'd see the neighbourhood and run off in horror.

Mickey is fairly unexpected however. He just dogs Majid's heels, a little smug smirk on his lips that twists his face and makes Majid want to shove it into the mattress until it goes slack with gasps. Yes, a much better look.

"Much further?" Mickey asks, only to snicker when Majid just speeds up and jogs up the steps to his building. He pushes the fancy man ahead of him on the stairs though so he can watch his hips sway, and Mickey nearly puts up a fight but clearly thinks better of it at Majid's growl. Little shit. Will the whole night be a competition?

 _Absolutely_ , Mickey's bright eyes reply.

They get inside with little more fuss, goals temporarily aligned. The quiet gives Majid a moment to think. What the hell is he doing, exactly? And what the hell is this man doing, throwing himself at a lowly boxer so damn desperately? The payment comment had been mostly to spark offence but there's a part of Majid that had wondered…

"Lovely place," Mickey snarks on arrival, wandering the small room. There's a tiny living space with the kitchen and then the bedroom off that, and nothing else. At least the bed is reasonable - the only other option would have been the settee, or the floor…

Majid eyes the floor and thinks about dirty hands and bruised knees and decides it's a potential plan for later on. It would suit Mickey ever so well.

"Bedroom is through there. I hope you're well supplied because I am not. Didn't expect to meet a groupie today."

"A what?"

"It's a- never mind. Get on the damn bed and I'll join you in a moment."

"What if I want to-"

"Get on the damn bed, Mr. Miranda," Majid repeats sharply, rounding on him. "You want to be here? Prove it."

So, he doesn't _really_ expect Mickey to immediately drop to his knees right there in the middle of the living room, but on reflection it isn't as out of the blue as it feels in the moment. "I can do that," Mickey purrs, tossing his curly head and reaching for Majid's clothes. He can't have that, not yet, not while the control of the situation is still wavering wildly between them, so Majid gathers his delicate wrists up quickly and squeezes them tight.

"No hands."

Mickey's resourcefulness quickly proves admirable. He bares his teeth briefly and tests Majid's grip, but with an intrigued look leans in and rubs his bare cheek up Majid's thigh like a particularly randy cat. Closer and closer he gets, and then he shifts, wicked pale eyes locked on Majid's brown so firmly that the boxer can hardly breathe. He angles his head in between Majid's legs and noses up at the growing lump of his cock, rather than using his mouth. Looking down it is quite the picture. Majid only manages not to moan because of his own considerable self-control, but it's a near thing and Mickey, damn him, can _tell_. He grins, brushing the tip of his proud nose up and up until he can open his mouth over the front of Majid's trousers and suck gently on the fabric.

"Oh, hell," Majid groans, setting one of Mickey's wrists free to bury his hand in that luscious hair instead, pressing the man's mouth more firmly against him. Mickey cuts off a whine that escapes and Majid laughs, delighted to find the edge of Mickey's own considerable control closer than he'd hoped. "Ah so you do want a bit of rough then. Coming after a fight winner, it's almost too obvious. How are your knees? Hurting yet?"

"No," Mickey sneers, muffled in Majid's crotch. He narrows his eyes and Majid shrugs.

"There's time to change that, I suppose. Now get on the damn bed, Miranda."

"Mickey, call me Mickey."

"What happened to ‘too familiar’?"

“We’re past worrying about _that_.”

“Hm. Then why should I?”

"F- what do you mean why?"

Majid grinds forwards a bit as retaliation for the tone. "What have you done to earn favours like that? Maybe I should call you something else. You're as demanding as a little princess right now. A brat in a fool's gold crown."

Whatever Mickey mumbles in protest is too muffled to hear and Majid grins widely. "Alright, brat will do then. Get on the damn bed, _brat_ , and stop fucking arguing. You wanted this enough to go panting after it in front of others - you can take what you're given now. I'm being nice and letting you, aren't I?"

This time Mickey does moan. It's soft and wavering but undeniably audible. Majid's jaw tenses and his hips hitch forwards entirely unintentionally, and Mickey whines, actually whines. "Alright, go," Majid murmurs, letting him go and dragging him up by the hand, only to push him towards the door. "I'm coming, go."

* * *

Mickey stumbles into the small bedroom and wrinkles his nose. As delightful (and frustrating) as this all is, the bed leaves a lot to be desired. He'd almost rather suggest the ratty settee out in the living area, it might actually be better for his back… But the bed was what Majid had decided on and the fighter has proven to have an interesting enough idea of their night that Mickey will follow his direction for a while and see where it goes. Brat, he's not so sure about, scowling briefly at the memory, but it's not so far from the truth and he'll bear it. And ignore the tiny thrill that dances down his spine from the sound of the word on Majid's tongue.

The bed is a single, taking up the entire width of the space, and half of the depth, leaving only enough room for the door to open inwards and for a tiny table to be shoved into a corner. He climbs on and sprawls out, squirming around to find the most comfortable parts of the lumpy mattress, scowling and prodding at the blankets to try and improve the situation.

"Princess might have been more apt, you seem to have a few peas there," Majid says from the doorway, startling Mickey upright. He moves very quietly for such a well-built man.

"It's not like I was expecting luxury, but for a top fighter this is exceptionally dismal."

"Get used to it. You'll be getting to know it very well." Mickey rolls his eyes at the comment and sprawls, pouting with the full force of his sulk behind him. It inspires Majid to chuckle, dropping the things in his hands onto the table and climbing over on top of him, crowding Mickey into the corner of the bed, also the corner of the room, trapping him against the walls. Their noses are very close and Majid still smells of sweat and a little bit of blood and Mickey… should not find that as arousing as he does. But he has long since given up being embarrassed about his habits in bed so he takes it in stride, licking his lips to watch Majid's eyes track the movement.

"Well? You seem to have most of the ideas here. What are you waiting for, a written invitation?"

Majid kisses like he punches, right on target, nothing held back and all follow through. The impact of Mickey's head hitting the wall rings through his skull and neck but he has no time to complain when the fighter is already yanking on his waistcoat and-

He howls in fury when Majid rips the whole thing open, shoving the fighter back to spit at him while he laughs. "That was expensive, you arse! You'd better damn well _pay_ for the fix or-" Majid captures his chin tightly in one hand and lifts it, putting a delicious strain on Mickey's neck.

"Or what, princess? You'll tell me off?"

"I'll _destroy you_ , you insignificant lowlife. Do you have any idea-"

"Oh shut up, you're not impressing me."

Mickey could have genuinely hit him but Majid has him by the lips again and he finds himself worked down flat onto the mattress in moments, unable to protest. He glares and pants but is quiet when Majid releases him, clenching his jaw at the huff of approval the behaviour receives. _This man_. He wishes he didn't want to bed him quite so badly; otherwise he would have up and left by now. Instead he is still, somehow, willing to suffer the indignity Majid is subjecting him to in the promise of some good cock.

It had better be worth it.

Majid divests them both of their shirts quickly, with no further casualties. Mickey's trousers follow next, and his underclothes, yanked away when he refuses to move to help. Majid bites him on the thigh for that and he yelps, but with nothing between them it's hard to hide the evidence of his enjoyment. And Majid laughs, again.

But at least now he's gazing down with a molten hot stare, hands warm and widely spread on Mickey's knees. They part his legs without much force, guiding one up to lean against the wall and the other far enough out that Mickey's heel slips off the bed entirely. It spreads him out nicely, the one single positive of this ignoble surface, and that has the wonderful knock-on effect of turning Majid breathless with want, if the soft growl and sudden flurry of movement is any indication. He strips himself methodically, climbing off the bed to hop out of his clothes all the faster. Mickey, for the first time, glances to the table beside him and spots a few… interesting items.

"I hope you're not planning on using that on me," he snarks, reaching out to poke the bottle of gin. "I wouldn't be caught dead drinking such swill. Nor is it going anywhere delicate."

"Brat," Majid mutters, almost… fondly. He grabs a different bottle, a jar in fact, full of what looks like lard. Disgusting but practical enough, unfortunately. When he opens it the smell proves not to be lard at all but some sort of cream, that Majid quickly explains is what he uses on his bruised knuckles. Nothing untoward, nothing dangerous, and it smells perfectly acceptable.

Mickey is almost impressed.

"Will you hurry up?" he asks, just to cover that up.

"Somewhere else to be?" Majid retorts. "Someone else to drool on until they find a surface to bend you over?"

"I _wish_ you'd bend me over, at this point I'm starting to think I'll have to do all the work here-"

Majid has him by the hair again before he can quite finish the last word, dragging him upright and close to his face. Mickey flails and grips his thick shoulders with wide eyes, startled. "Turn over, get that arse up and stop being such a brat. This goes at my pace. You hear?"

"What if I sa-"

"I _highly_ suggest that you don't. You've tested my patience more than enough don't you think? Just shut up for ten minutes and you'll enjoy yourself."

"Ten minutes? That's not very-"

He squeaks when Majid unceremoniously grabs him and flips him over, hand down on the back of his head. The sheets are a little musty and old under his nose, and Majid's other hand is tight on his hip, lifting him up at the waist. Without any more words the fighter smacks him once on the thigh, a short, sharp thing that makes him jump more than hurt. "Stay there. Don't move," is the order, and god help him but Mickey is frozen in place in a haze of lust and he _obeys_. Majid presses hard into the spot he'd made impact but Mickey doesn't move, and he hums, pleased at last.

The cream is cold when it coats the inside of Mickey's thighs, but warms quickly. He wishes Majid would move it higher, deeper, but the fighter seems content enough to do things this way rather than the newer option.

Without any further ado Mickey finds his legs shoved together and then Majid is pressing his cock between them, thrusting away in deep, smooth movements, controlled power clear in the flex of his thighs against the back of Mickey's. Mickey for his part tries everything to encourage him to let loose but it isn't until he whines, high and frustrated, that Majid's hips stutter.

"Please," he begs in the same voice, letting out another desperate whine, thrilled when the boxer finally reacts.

"Fine."

It's all Mickey can do to get a hand under himself when Majid grabs his hips and goes at it. The pleasure on his end isn't quite as good as it could be but the promise is there and Mickey is perfectly happy to have a first round be more simple than the following ones. With the way Majid is moving against him it's probably a good thing they aren't going straight to the main course, so to speak. He'll be able to go longer this way.

Majid finishes with a loud groan of satisfaction, echoed by Mickey only a few short seconds later. They drip onto the bed, a problem for later, and pant together. Majid drapes over his back and reaches under to find Mickey's dirtied hand, chuckling against his shoulder briefly before rolling them onto their sides. "Wake me when you're ready for another," he slurs, and promptly falls asleep at Mickey's back, just like that.

Mickey rolls his eyes, grimacing at the damp under his hip, and mutters that he will, then.

He drifts off in Majid's tight grasp, sated but not thoroughly satisfied.

Not yet. That will come later.

* * *

It does come later, as does Mickey. He nearly cries, the little princess, when Majid fucks him into a squirming release on the bed - one hand splayed on the wall to brace against Majid’s hard thrusts; the other flung back to grip the boxer’s hip tightly enough to bruise. _Good_ , Majid thinks. He happens to like bruises. All the more when they come from something pleasant to remember rather than unpleasant. Perhaps he is somewhat a slave to pain, but anyone would have to be, to enter the profession he finds himself in. 

Mickey objects multiple times to how often Majid taunts him for being a brat but to his credit the protests are almost entirely in word alone, and he does take what he’s given awfully prettily after the initial spark of fight has fallen by the wayside. 

Neither of them are thinking much beyond the next round, and night is in full bloom when they arise from their second round (the fight bell echoes faintly in Majid’s imagination at the thought of calling it by such a title but between them it feels apt) and stumble out for the third. Mickey takes one look at the settee and balks in disapproval before Majid bends him over it and… _encourages_ him to get nicely acquainted with it, before he judges too harshly. As it turns out Mickey is a lot more willing to see the good side while Majid has his fingers deep inside him, wringing what he can from the fancy man (and giving his cock a break, because he wants the next one - undoubtedly the final one - to last). Mickey makes the most wonderful choking sound of surprise and desperation when he finds his finish forced out in far less time than Majid had thought he would manage, and then starts to hiss like a feral alley cat when Majid’s fingers don’t retreat fast enough, writhing to buck him off. 

“Not a chance,” Majid warns him, still rubbing over the magic spot inside him until he goes limp, wracked with shudders, whining miserably for mercy. 

“Please,” he croaks eventually, supplication written in every line of his body, and Majid very kindly allows him some respite, drawing free and letting go, relishing in the way the brat slips down into a heap on the floor, a veritable puddle of a man wrung dry of pleasure. 

“You know,” Majid tells him conversationally, crouching down at his side. “You’ve been a better investment than I had expected. Maybe you’re worth a decent price after all.” Mickey glares weakly at him and swats, trying to hit whatever is in reach. He fails of course, still too overcome to make his limbs obey him. “Tell me, have you reevaluated your opinion of the furniture?”

“I hate you,” Mickey wheezes, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the settee cushions with a soft groan. “Very much.” 

“Oh I know, princess. I know. Isn’t it fun?” 

Majid in all his many years of learning the ways and wiles of people, could not have ever predicted Mickey’s reaction to his retort. Instead of a sneer or a baring of teeth; instead of a scowl or roll of his eyes; Mickey huffs a soft chuckle and smiles, shaking his head. “I can’t complain,” he agrees, voice quiet, quieter than such a man should be capable of. The whole thing gives Majid pause, and when he stands up he looks down and tilts his head, considering the melted brat on the floor. 

“I think you could use some water, and then another rest,” he declares, forcing the words to be a little firmer, harsher than they want to be, so that the consideration isn’t mistaken for, say, _care_ . Mickey notices anyway because the most interesting thing Majid has discovered about Mickey so far is how bloody _sharp_ the man is, and his eyes know far too much when they flick up to find Majid’s face. He only nods though, and returns to his lounging until the boxer can haul him upright and walk him to the bedroom. 

If by walk, one means drag a few steps and then scoop up over one’s shoulder, that is. 

He doesn’t climb into bed with Mickey, and busies himself with making a small meal, unbearably hungry after the fight and the fucking since. A plate of bread and cheeses isn’t much but it is always a good start, and he sets a pot to boil to add some potatoes for added sustenance later, dismissing the idle thought of whether Mickey would be hungry himself. A man like that won’t be feeling the same pinch of hunger as Majid is, not even after their exertion. He’s probably never gone hungry a day in his life. 

“Shouldn’t bother really,” Majid mutters to himself, hand pausing over the extra potatoes, and then with a click of his tongue and a harsh sound - annoyed with himself both for considering doing it and considering not doing it - adds the extras in, trying not to think about feeding the irritating man that has unceremoniously muscled into his home tonight. 

The bed creaks and the floor groans when someone moves in the bedroom, followed by footsteps. Majid counts himself and Mickey lucky that the other man doesn’t have the lightness of step that he does or he would find himself with a fist in the face when he presses up against Majid’s back out of nowhere, sliding his hands down and around to tease at Majid’s cock. 

“I’m cooking, you little shit,” Majid growls, shoving his hands away, but Mickey comes back quickly and makes a noise that proves he doesn’t care a whit about that. 

“Can’t you concentrate on both?” he asks simply. 

“I can, but you’re not finishing me off here, not like this. I want you again, and not your hand.”

“Are you going to stop me?” 

Majid answers that with his actions, turning around and walking Mickey back until his legs hit the table. Instead of moving away and admitting defeat Mickey simply sits himself on top of it, reaching to pull Majid closer by the hips and Majid… goes. Why he goes he isn’t sure, when the water is on and the food is all out, but Mickey’s legs are right there and his thighs are so inviting and he looks like a meal himself, sitting there ready and waiting. Majid nearly drools, but he kisses Mickey instead and tastes him, devours him like he wants to until his brat is keening and arching into him. 

In some ways Majid is hoping he’s made a good showing of himself tonight. Mickey had been so very desperate but he’s also rich, or richer than Majid at least, and used to elite company. He must have his pick of the social higher-ups and Majid isn’t at _all_ self-conscious about being compared to them… But he isn’t so proud as to be unable to admit he wants Mickey to remember this. This roll in the dirt with a mere boxer. His little flirtation with the lower class. Is it too much to think of himself as representing an entire social class in this one encounter? Absolutely. Is he doing it anyway, and pulling out all the stops? Abso-bloody-lutely. 

“Have me here,” Mickey orders him breathlessly, the begging gone from his voice again. It seems Majid has to fuck it out of him each time round. If they had more time, or another night, he might experiment with not allowing Mickey to recover his brash arrogance in between rounds and instead keep him going for longer, see how long it takes to make him genuinely sweet and pliant and desperate to please. From what Majid has seen so far that would take a significant amount of both time and effort so he isn’t expecting it to ever be a possibility, but the thought is nice. It certainly adds a touch more heat to the blood coursing through his veins as he presses between Mickey’s legs and grinds against him. 

“I will, but I’m not going to finish here,” Majid replies, shoving him hard down onto the table on his back. The impact makes him huff for air and Majid grins like the wolf he’s named after in the ring, levering his legs up and back. Mickey grasps the edge of the table and holds his breath, and while he waits Majid enjoys the view. His legs are plush and slightly soft, as is his belly, signs of a comfortable life. But he’s littered with marks by now, and his hair is in utter disarray, curls made messy by grasping fingers and sweat. 

They both groan when Majid pushes in, having teased himself at the entrance first and chuckled darkly when Mickey whined. He can’t hold still for even the barest second, but he does go slow. “Hold them yourself if you want the angle,” he grits out, watching Mickey’s fingers curl under his own knees, knowing it’ll stop him from being able to brace. A good rough fuck on the table will be hell on his back and Majid is breathless with the need to see him red and whimpering from it, yet helplessly allowing more and more and more. For his part he grabs hold of Mickey’s thick hips and sets to, long, deep strokes that serve to wind them both up. 

“God, fuck me _properly_ you arse!” Mickey snaps, a whiny edge to his voice. Majid wants to ignore him and wait for the begging to start, and so… he does. This time instead of caving and going for it as soon as his need rises he waits, slowing _down_. Mickey howls in impotent fury and frustration, far too loud for the hour of night. Majid doesn’t need to be getting himself kicked out of his rooms, even as awful as they are, so what else is he to do but lift a hand to clamp down firmly on Mickey’s mouth, pinning him at the same time as silencing him. Mickey struggles and pulls ineffectually at his arm before a particularly nice thrust makes his eyes roll and his body go loose on a drawn out shudder. 

His legs have fallen down and lie over the edge of the table, shifting and shaking with each roll of Majid’s hips, which is both uncomfortable and thoroughly unsatisfying for them both. They end up flung up over the boxer’s shoulders instead so he can start to ever so slowly increase his speed, still holding onto Mickey’s flushed face. 

“How will you ever be satisfied again?” Majid growls out after a few long minutes of that, eyes bright and fixed on Mickey’s so he can see the tortured look in them when they flit around and find him staring. “After me, after I’ve taken you apart and scattered the pieces, how will you ever find anything to compare?”

Mickey moans, muffled behind his hand, a thin and needy sound. “That’s right, brat, that’s right. You’ll never find anything like me. Just remember you asked for this - you came to me and you wanted everything you’ve had since, didn’t you?” Mickey nods desperately, reaching up to hold Majid’s outstretched hand, simply for some kind of anchor it seems. “You’ll find some other cock to sit on but it won’t be the same will it, princess. It won’t be as good.” This time Mickey’s whine is more of a sob and he flutters around Majid, encouraging him on. Majid tries to remember that he’d promised not to finish them like this but it’s hard, and it's difficult too. How can he bear to pull himself out of Mickey’s warm, welcoming heat? 

In the end it's actually the pot that makes the decision for him, bubbling over with a hiss of steam. Majid pulls out fast, ripping a howl from Mickey’s throat, and turns to blow out the flame of the hob quickly, growling in frustration at losing both his track with cooking and the heat of their impending release. He ignores the pot and turns back, giving up on potatoes for the moment. Instead he grabs Mickey by the wrist and pulls him off the table, stumbling him through the room and into the bedroom so that Majid can fall to sit on the bed, directing Mickey as swiftly as possible straight back onto his cock. “Like this?” he asks, hardly caring about the answer, but Mickey very nicely jumps right into it, taking over and riding Majid hard down into the bed, wanton as anything while he chases his pleasure. He leans back and Majid lifts his knees to give him something to prop his weight onto, groaning at the sight Mickey makes fucking himself on the boxer’s cock like it’s just a toy for him to use. 

Well, that won’t do at all. He stops Mickey the next time he lifts himself up, squeezing his fingers into his rear and enjoying the squish of it. He holds the brat in place and lifts his knees even further, flattening his back to the bed and thanking his own life choices for giving him the muscle strength he has, so he can set his stomach tight and his thighs flexing and pound up until Mickey literally cannot stop himself from flinging a hand around himself and jerking with release almost immediately. He would howl, Majid knows, but his voice breaks and leaves it almost silent, and then he stuffs his other fist into his mouth anyway to try and keep himself somewhat quiet, a concession to Majid’s earlier directions. The fact he even bothers is perhaps testament to how well Majid has satisfied him so far, that little silent gesture that says ‘I suppose I can bend to you in this thing at least’. To do it while he’s falling apart and shaking so badly he’s almost vibrating in Majid’s lap is a whole other level of arousing. Majid is genuinely shocked he doesn’t finish as well. 

“Hell, Mickey,” he croaks, keeping up his tempo until Mickey whimpers and covers his face with both of his hands. He doesn’t make a single move to try and stop Majid moving however, and just stays sat in place, held upright by Majid’s trembling arms. “Can I-?” 

What he’s asking for he isn’t sure but Mickey whines and nods. “Please?” he whispers, lowering his hands to reveal red, watery eyes. “Oh Majid _please_.”

It feels like the end, now. Majid feels the impending disappointment of not having any more of this to look forward to, but he shoves it away to concentrate on the brilliant, white-hot pleasure of _now_. He can’t hold Mickey up anymore from this angle, not without the brat helping him, so he tosses Mickey back on the lumpy bed and covers him with his whole body, chasing his own spectacular end. He finishes with a deep groan, to the sweet symphony of Mickey’s soft whining, and the flutter of his silky soft fingers over his shoulders. It would be even better with Mickey’s legs wrapped around his waist, or would it? The fact that they’re limp and loosely spread on the bed to either side speak of a deep-wrung satisfaction and weariness that actually sends Majid wilder, grinding just a little deeper with another raw sound, that he tries to muffle by biting a red mark into Mickey’s neck. 

He floats a little, hips hitching in small movements and suckling on the skin Mickey bares to him eagerly, the two of them trying to calm their heaving breaths slowly back into something more normal. 

“Good heavens,” Mickey whispers, voice rough, when he can speak again. “I can’t- I _never_ -” 

“Yes. That,” Majid agrees. “Yes.”

“ _God_.”

Majid just hums, entire body weighed down now his stunningly strong fervour is abating. He feels loose unlike he ever has before, relaxed and well fucked and comfortable right where he is. Mickey seems equally so, still under him. 

“I should-” Majid starts, beginning to move, but Mickey stops him with a hand on the back of his head. 

“Later,” he murmurs, drawing Majid into a slow, lazy kiss. It shouldn’t work but somehow they seem to just both succumb to the growing draw of sleep, curled together on the thin bed. They don’t even part to clean up (a regret for the morning no doubt), nor to eat, but Majid doesn’t have the space in his mind to worry about mice and stale bread tonight. He has Mickey and Mickey is warm and soft and almost sweet, and his body is a delightful cradle for him to just… drift off on, cheek pillowed on his shoulder, heartbeats and breathing aligned and rhythmically lulling him to sleep. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Soa for reading the entire thing out loud to me late at night and making me scream silently for many long minutes, and the whole fam for indulging this rarest of pairs. Rest assured (looking at you Polar) that I am far from done with these two.
> 
> And thanks to the All & More server for introducing me to the sprint bot and thereby allowing most of this to get itself written in between Big Bang chapters!


End file.
